"Monsieur Fingret," he began impressively, "I am quite certain that Hiram W. Holladay and his wife were here during the months of May, June, and July, 1876, and that while they were here a daughter was born to them. Think again—have you no recollection of them or of the event?"
The little notary sat for some moments with knitted brows. At last he shook his head.
"That would be the height of the season, you see, monsieur," he said apologetically. "There are a great many people here, at that time, and I cannot know all of them. Nevertheless, it seemed to me for a moment that there was about the name a certain familiarity—as of an old tune, you know, forgotten for years. Yet it must have been my fancy merely, for I have no recollection of the event you mention. I cannot believe that such a birth took place at Etretat."
There was one other chance, and I gave Mr. Royce the clew.
"Monsieur Fingret," he asked, "are you acquainted with a man by the name of Pierre Bethune?"
And again the notary shook his head.
"Or Jasper Martigny?"
"I never before heard either name, monsieur," he answered.
We sat silent a moment, in despair. Was our trip to Etretat to be of no avail? Where was my premonition, now? If we had lost the trail thus early in the chase, what hope was there that we should ever run down the quarry? And how explain the fact that no record had been made of Frances Holladay's birth? Why should her parents have wished to conceal it? Would they not naturally have been anxious to see that it was properly recorded?
An hour had passed; the shops were opening, and a bustle of life reached us through the open door. People began to pass by twos and threes.